


To Be Real

by Throwthemflowers



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, First Loves, Gender Exploration, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Implied homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Velveteen Rabbit AU, fairies of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Throwthemflowers/pseuds/Throwthemflowers
Summary: Inspired liberally from the exemplary book, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. Chloe, my dear, this is for you, I hope you and Noa enjoy, and that it's somewhat what you pictured <3 Love you, Toni
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 114





	To Be Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowercrownfemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownfemme/gifts).



> Inspired liberally from the exemplary book, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. Chloe, my dear, this is for you, I hope you and Noa enjoy, and that it's somewhat what you pictured <3 Love you, Toni

Once there was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was quite splendid. He had soft brown fur and floppy ears and a plush bottom and blue button eyes that sparkled like the sky. On Christmas morning he found himself wedged atop the boy’s stocking, surrounded by little toy trucks and candies and a dart gun and two decks of cards. Though this was uncomfortable on his stitching, he had an excellent view, and when the boy came running down the stairs in his striped pajamas and shrieked in happiness and dumped the whole stocking out, only to scoop up the velveteen rabbit and leave all the other gifts scattered on the floor, the little rabbit knew his discomfort was worth the wait. 

There were more presents under the tree, of course, bigger and more exciting ones, and the little boy, whose name was Harry, soon forgot all about the stuffed bunny lying atop crushed wrapping paper. That night the bunny was tidied away with the other toys to the playroom and placed in a large bin with things much more solid and angular than him, and he yearned for the gentle arms of the little boy around his stuffed tummy. 

From the toy bin the rabbit would watch the days pass, and he liked the times when he was tidied on top, instead of underneath, for then he could watch the sunsets and talk with his only other friend in the playroom, the rocking horse. The rocking horse was stuffed just like him, but over a frame of wood, and his skin had started to wear through in spots, and his nose was black from years of kisses. The newer toys that could move and talk and whir and shoot thought him very ugly, and would laugh at his loose strings and raggedy yarn mane. But the rabbit was jealous of the rocking horse, for on days when the boy was alone in the playroom without any friends, he never searched through his toy bin for entertainment, but would sit on the old horse and rock back and forth, making up stories and singing to himself and stroking the frayed brown yarn like he thought the rocking horse could feel it, like he thought the rocking horse was _real_. And the rabbit began to wonder about this, and ache to be touched like that too. 

One night, when the little boy had gone to bed, the rabbit asked the rocking horse, “What is _real_? Does it mean having moving parts and singing when your string is pulled?” 

“Oh,” said the rocking horse, “Real isn’t how you are made, it’s something that happens to you.” 

“How?” 

“When a child loves you for a very long time, really _loves_ you and learns to see you as more than a toy, then you become real.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Sometimes.” The horse smiled at him kindly, “But when you are real you don’t mind feeling it, because that’s part of the realness.”   
“Can it happen all at once, like magic?” 

“Becoming real takes a very long time,” said the horse somberly, “And most of these fancy breakable toys will not last long enough. Usually by the time you are real your fur has been loved off and your eyes fall out and your stitching starts to come apart, and you turn very ugly, but that doesn’t matter at all, not when you are real, except to people who don’t understand.” 

The velveteen rabbit thought about this a moment. “Then you must be real,” he declared. 

“Another little boy before this one made me real. Realness lasts for always, you can never go back to being unreal.” 

Every night the little rabbit dreamed of being loved enough to become real, and every day he would watch Harry from the toy bin, hoping to catch his eye. 

One day Harry had friends over to play, and they dumped the toy bin, and everyone went spilling out across the floor. Other boys grabbed up action figures for their game, but Harry sat on the floor looking upset, glancing around him like nothing _fit_. The velveteen rabbit worked up his courage and flopped down atop the carpet at the boy’s feet, and instantly a smile came to Harry’s face. 

“You’ll do,” he said, picking up the rabbit and following his friends outside. 

The boys were playing a game where they pretended to be their toys. One boy was the Hulk, another was Spider Man, another GI Joe, and the last was a cowboy. 

“That’s a girl’s toy, Harry,” one of the boys said, looking at the rabbit disdainfully as Harry made him jump around. 

“Yeah we don’t play with stuffed animals anymore, that’s baby stuff.” 

Harry stopped hopping his rabbit. “But I like my bunny.” 

“It’s sissy, I bet it has cooties like girls.” 

“EWW!” The other boy’s chorused. 

The little rabbit saw Harry’s lip begin to wobble, so he pressed ever so slightly back into the boy’s hand, thinking in his little stuffed head, _”They don’t matter, I think you’re wonderful.”_

This seemed to do the trick, for Harry smiled and ignored his friends’ game, instead building little huts for the rabbit to live in and stirring up leafy soups and making rock paths between the tiny houses. Eventually Harry’s friends came to join him, as if by his silent defiance the earth had shifted slightly. They all sat around building little dwellings out of garden scraps and sticks until it was time for dinner and everyone had to go home. 

That night the rabbit never left Harry’s side; he sat on his lap during dinner, and on the bathroom counter during his bath, and finally was pressed into Harry’s soft bed sheets and cuddled close, so close that he almost couldn’t breathe, but it was the best, most lovely feeling, and though his stuffing all moved to one side, he soaked in Harry’s heartbeat and warmth happily. 

“Bunny, you need a name,” Harry whispered when the big lights were off and only the little plug-in glowed throughout the bedroom. “I think I’ll call you Louis. Do you like that?” 

_Louis._ The little rabbit squirmed around at the sound of his name. He could almost remember _always_ being Louis, that’s how right it felt. 

“Goodnight Louis, I love you.” 

Summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, and every day Louis played from morning until night with his boy, and then cuddled close to him in slumber. By the next Christmas one of his paws was squeezed flat, all the stuffing having gone thin because that’s where Harry held his hand. Sometimes he looked grand though, for a bunny. Sometimes Harry would brush his fluffy tail out from the snarls of sleep and dress him in ribbons he’d commandeered from gift packages. Louis loved the ribbons, especially the long ones that dragged on the floor even when tied in a bow. After the ribbons Harry began to dress him in necklaces, and Louis loved this best, for Harry would fuss over him wonderfully and loop the beads around his neck until they hung just right. 

“You look so pretty, Louis. There you go, see? I wish I looked as pretty as you.” Harry clutched him close and kissed the end of his moleskin nose.

Louis could only wear the necklaces when they were alone, though, for one time Harry’s dad had found him wearing them and gotten quite upset, saying something about dolls and unnaturalness and how no boy Harry’s age should still be playing with a stuffed bunny, let alone dressing it up. Harry was only eight, but he knew enough to start keeping the necklaces a secret just between them. 

Louis didn’t really notice the years going by, but his fur was starting to mat and the moleskin on his nose to wear thin from kisses, and Harry began to spend longer and longer at school during the day. Oh how Louis would daydream of summer and Christmas break and weekends while Harry was gone; they were sweet, happy dreams, and he stored them up like rations because as Harry grew, so did his sadness. He would often cry himself to sleep, Louis clutched close to his chest where the sobs were loudest, and whisper into Louis’ long velveteen ears how he hurt inside, how only Louis knew who he really was, only Louis knew the _real_ him. 

It had never occurred to Louis that his boy wanted to be real too, but he knew exactly how that felt, and he comforted Harry as best he could and promised him with his whole stuffing heart that Harry would always, always be loved by him, even if he got worn patches or lost the shine in his eyes. 

One day Harry didn’t take him down to breakfast in the morning, but instead tucked him under the covers of their warm bed and gave him a kiss on the nose. Louis didn’t say anything, and he tried not to be hurt, but it must have shown in his eyes, for Harry whispered, “It’s different now, Louis. I think I have to grow up.” 

It wasn’t so bad spending the day huddled under Harry’s covers, for the bed smelled like him and it was soft and springy. One day Harry tucked him in at such an angle that he could see through the open door of the old toy room; it was now empty. 

One morning Louis woke up squished to Harry’s chest in a vice-hold, his little body flattened against a damp t-shirt and sweaty skin. 

“Oh Louis, Louis,” Harry cried into his ear, “It’s happened. I don’t want to be a man, not like them, not like they want me to. And I—I dreamed about a boy, Louis, we—oh I can’t even say it out loud to you—and it was like magic, like summertime and flying.” 

Louis pressed his head to Harry’s thumping heart and tried to understand, and did a little, when Harry threw his boxers in the trash and stripped off all his bedsheets and tucked Louis in between the bare pillows for the day so he wouldn’t get cold. 

Sometimes at night when all the lights were out and even Louis couldn’t see, Harry would fumble under his sheets and start to breathe heavily and moan very softly, and Louis could never tell if he was in pain or not because always at the end he would wind up crying and kissing Louis’ nose and whispering about how much he wanted to be touched like that by a boy, and how he hated how much he dreamed about it and thought of it and ached for it because it could never, ever happen, it was such a secret, and must always be, forever.

Louis thought, _I could keep this secret with him. Forever._

High school kept Harry away more than ever, but one night made up for all the lonely days. Harry told Louis, in his right ear, the more raggedy one because it always was pressed to Harry’s chest, that he didn’t know how to kiss anyone. And of course Louis thought, _That’s so silly, Harry, you know how to kiss me._ And he brought his rubbed-to-plastic nose towards Harry’s lips and his boy understood, and parted his mouth ever so slightly and kissed him, _really_ kissed him. Louis could feel pillowy warmth around his whiskers and a touch of hot tongue running along the stitching of his tiny mouth. Oh it was _everything_ , and Louis wondered how much love would finally make him real, how much more it would take, for he felt so very loved, full to the brim with it, and oh _why_ hadn’t it happened yet so he could kiss Harry back? 

When Harry would kiss him with lipstick on he had to be washed, which was an unpleasant experience, save for the drying out afterwards. Harry hid the lipstick under his pillow and sometimes it would roll out as they slept, but by morning Louis always shoved it back, safe and sound and out of sight. Behind his closed door, Harry began wearing a nightgown to bed, and Louis loved this, for it was frilly and had lace and pink embroidered flowers and stitching so fine that he was slightly jealous. Sometimes Harry didn’t wear clothes to bed at all, and on these nights Louis would cuddle the closest, because Harry’s smell would transfer so easily to him, and Louis considered this his perfume. He knew about perfume because Harry hid some next to his lipstick now, a flowery kind in a pink heart-shaped bottle that smelled so strongly Harry had to wash it off before seeing his parents. 

Harry started staying up later, which meant less cuddling, but Louis didn’t mind because usually he got to witness a fashion show as Harry tried on clothes he’d sneaked into the house. Louis would sit on the bed, his fluffy cotton tail now all but shriveled away beneath his flat bottom, and watch as Harry shimmied into skirts and bras and tight lacy pants and crop tops and skinny jeans and sweatshirts with rainbows on them. He borrowed them all from girls at school, he said, and would rarely have the same things twice. He loved mixing and matching the clothing, and would giggle to Louis about how he felt more real when he didn’t have to be only _Harry_. 

The day everything changed Louis was tucked into bed, warm and content, waiting for Harry to come home. Sometimes Harry would keep little magazine clippings under his pillow along with his nail polish and perfume, and Louis always guarded these as well, because they were pictures of boys, boys not as pretty as Harry of course, but they had sculpted bodies and chest hair and angular faces and sometimes they didn’t have any clothes on. That morning one of the pictures had flown out from under the pillow as Harry had made the bed, and he’d not seen it before leaving for school. Louis tried as hard as he could to get his saggy, thin body to move, if only to fall on the picture and keep it secret, but with almost all his stuffing squished up, he was useless. Why Harry’s mother decided to open the windows in his room that day, Louis never did know, but upon stepping foot in her son’s room she was confronted with a nude male model in shiny magazine ink. 

Everything happened in a blur. Harry’s father was brought in next, and the room torn apart. It didn’t take them long to find the lipstick and perfume, nor the nailpolish and nightgowns. In a rage these items were hurled into a metal trash bin, and perhaps Louis would have been spared if he’d not been wearing a necklace that day, but he was, and so in he went, grabbed by the ears rougher than he’d been handled in a decade and thrown headfirst amongst the other contraband items and then carried to the front yard and emptied into another container, this one plastic and putrid smelling and large. Only minutes later a very loud truck stopped beside him, and he was thrown about again, this time from the large bin into a gigantic truck. He caught a glimpse of Harry as he fell towards the other trash, for his boy had just gotten home from school. He tried to cry out, to say anything at all, but of course he could not, because his mouth was just stitching and he had no tongue and all the reaching in the world could not make his little stuffing arms move forwards. 

The truck ride was long and bumpy, and somewhere along a stretch of road with no street lights the truck hit a very large hole and Louis bounced free and hurled into a damp trench with a bunch of soggy litter and a croaking frog and mud. He lay there, his faded blue eyes staring up at the stars, thinking of his boy back at home, all his secrets discovered, his best friend thrown away. Could Harry even sleep without him? They had never spent a night apart. Every trip and sleepover Louis had gone too, sometimes hidden, sometimes packed away with boxers and socks, but always there. Always. 

Amidst the stars and the litter and the mud, a tear formed in Louis’ button eye, a _real_ tear, a tear distilled from heartbreak and anguish and love. It rolled down the little rabbit’s worn velveteen fur and plopped to the earth where it glistened a moment under the stars, then disappeared. Within moments a little string of green began to push up from the dirt where it had fallen, growing taller and thicker by the second and branching out with leaves and stems and buds. Like a wiggling snake it reached towards the sky and produced at its top a magnificent flower, one that glowed with a soft moon-halo, white and silky and with ruffled petals that spilled open as, from its center, emerged a tiny fairy. 

With wings like spider-silk the fairy fluttered upwards, her gown dripping down from her in swirls of color until she had grown to the size of a human. Louis lay entranced, feeling very grubby and unfit to be observed by such a wondrous creature. He wished Harry could see her, see her curly hair that stood in a halo around her head, filled with flowers of every color and type, and her bosom dripping with pearls and crystals and diamonds, filling up the crevice between her breasts with sparkling galaxies. 

“Who are you,” Louis whispered in awe. 

“Who do you think I am? You summoned me, little one.” 

Louis shook his head. “I wouldn’t know how.” 

“With your tear, of course. You cried a real tear, little rabbit, and I am the fairy who makes all things _real_.” 

Louis’ stuffing heart pounded within him, and his ears trembled.

The fairy continued. “I have come to turn you real.” 

Louis had always thought that was his dream, but now, with such a wish in his grasp, he knew what he really wanted. He had no doubt in his little stuffing head, and the joy of such a revelation made his threadbare whiskers twitch. 

“Fairy, I already am real, don’t you see?” Louis stood, stretching out his fur the best he knew how. “But the boy I love, he needs you more than me.” 

“Is this boy also made of velveteen and stuffing, little one?” 

“Oh no. But you must know there are many ways to be un-real.” 

The fairy smiled sadly at Louis. “Little rabbit, I shall tell you a secret. You are quite right, you _are_ already real, but so is your boy, because just as he’s loved you to real, you have seen and loved the real him.” 

Louis sniffed, his bare nose cold in the dark. “Then I must get back to him. I must keep making him real always, always and forever.” 

Gracefully the fairy crouched down and scooped Louis into her arms. “That wish I can grant, little one.” And she pushed off into the sky, her wings beating against the night air and her gown swirling behind her like the trail of a shooting star. They soared above the trees until Louis’ faded blue eyes got lost in the trackless heavens and he drifted to sleep.

*

“Are you alright? Hello? Oh please say something, anything.” 

Louis opened his eyes to sunlight, bright and warm and too colorful. But between him and the sky hovered a face that was imprinted on his heart: Harry. 

He smiled, waiting for his boy to pick him up and pull him close, but instead Harry just stared down at him, worry creasing his forehead. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

Louis smiled wider. Of course he wasn’t hurt, he was back with his boy. The fairy had made his wish come true. How he wanted to throw his little stuffed arms around Harry and feel the steady pulse of his heart! 

And then, suddenly he _was_. The sensation of hands and feet and fingers zipped through his body in a split second and he gasped at the feeling, then gasped again at the sound of his own quick intake of air. He could _breathe_. 

Tears came next, filling his bright blue eyes and spilling down his flushing cheeks. For the first time he uttered his love’s name out loud. 

“Harry,” he whispered. 

His boy pulled back, confused, his eyes searching, roving over all of him. “H—how do you know my name?” 

“Harry.” Louis sat up properly and found they were on a street corner by a bus stop, and that Harry had a backpack on his shoulders and red blotches on his face, as if he’d spent the night crying. “Harry.” 

“You were asleep on the sidewalk here, and I wondered, well, if you had a place to go to. I’m running away you see, and—” 

Louis didn’t let him finish, he kissed Harry’s words away, kissed him with a slightly parted mouth, with the tip of his tongue, the way he’d always felt it, the way he’d always wanted to kiss back. After a moment Harry pulled away with glistening eyes. 

“You’ve kissed me. I can—I can hardly breathe.” 

“Is it everything you imagined, kissing a real boy?” Louis asked as he took in Harry’s green eyes—filled with pupil now but no less vibrant—and brought his still-tingling fingers to rest in Harry’s mess of brown curls. 

“Yes, yes it’s everything, it’s _everything_.” 

Louis hooked his thumbs beneath his boy’s tense jaw and pulled their mouths together again, and this time Harry crawled forwards on the scratchy sidewalk and into Louis’ lap. As they kissed Harry looped both arms around him and held him close, and there, pressed against the pulse he had known for a decade, Louis said between their wet lips, “You have always been real to me.” 

Harry hiccuped and smooshed their noses tighter. “How do I feel as if I’ve known you before?” 

Louis made no answer save to suck lightly on Harry’s still-unsteady bottom lip as the taste of salt mingled with their spit. 

Harry murmured, “Will you come with me? Somewhere, anywhere, I don’t know. Away.”

“The world is big, I think.” Louis smiled, his heartbeat thick in his throat. “We’ll find a place in it, I know we will.” 

Relief washed over Harry’s face and he tucked his nose to Louis’ neck, inhaling the warm, earthy scent of the light brown t-shirt and pants that he wore. 

“You haven’t even told me your name, and I’m already in love with you.” 

“I’m Louis.” 

Harry perked up and his lips fell apart in surprise. “You are? I had an old stuffed bunny named Louis.”

“You did?” 

Because you see by then, Louis had forgotten all about being filled with stuffing, and had in fact forgotten everything about his former life except that there was a boy named Harry who loved him, a boy who liked to wear pearls and nightgowns and who wanted more than anything to be loved back for who he really was. And Louis planned on doing just that, for as long as his brand-new heart kept beating.


End file.
